


As the Year Turns

by WednesdayGilfillian



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Charity Shop, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Meet-Cute, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-02 23:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16797103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdayGilfillian/pseuds/WednesdayGilfillian
Summary: Shelagh is a midwifery student who works part-time at the St. Raymond Nonnatus Charity Shop. She's just gained a new favourite customer in Timothy Turner, who hangs round the shop while waiting for his Dad.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I _had_ to write a Christmas fic for Shelagh & Patrick.  
> This story won't take place entirely within the winter holiday season, however, but skip ahead throughout the year. (I think that's my homage to the fact that, here in the Southern hemisphere, Christmas and the middle of summer happen simultaneously!)  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

“Thank you, Mrs. Olsen. Take a mince pie as you go! Merry Christmas!”

Shelagh Mannion sighed to herself as she sat back down behind the counter, and cast a guilty glance at her untouched notes. She had always been efficient and good at multi-tasking, but perhaps it was too much to expect to fit in her readings while actually working the Christmas rush.

Not that there _was_ much of a rush at the St. Raymond Nonnatus Charity Shop. Shelagh had worked there on a part-time basis for…more than ten years now, she realised. It had seemed a natural fit for a part-time job when she’d been a fresh-faced young Theology student. It had sustained her through the difficult period when she was at a loss, no longer sure what it was she ought to be doing with her life. And now, as she pursued a midwifery qualification at the age of thirty-three, the job felt like a natural fit of a different kind. St. Raymond Nonnatus (the charity shop) was associated loosely with the nearby hospital of the same name.

Of course, being a charity shop, it paid an absolute pittance – but then, a pittance was all a student ever expected to live on. And it sat well with Shelagh’s values, to be working somewhere that did such undeniable good. That buoyed her up every day, especially around Christmas.

The shop bell tinkled again, and Shelagh brightened to see young Timothy Turner come in. Over the last month or so, he had quickly become her favourite customer. She had come to notice him only gradually, as an increasingly-familiar face frequenting the shop in the hour before it closed. The boy never seemed to be in any rush, or to be looking for anything in particular. He appeared to be just passing time. 

The first time they’d actually spoken, Shelagh had been working on the Christmas window display. The brown-haired boy had been hovering nearby, pretending to be interested in a shelf full of china while sneaking surreptitious glances at the display. She’d decided to try for conversation.

“Have you found anything interesting?”  
He’d shrugged. “I’m just looking.”  
He had seemed faintly pleased, though, to be noticed. The next time he’d looked up, Shelagh had been holding out two plastic Christmas bells for his inspection.  
“What do you think I should go with – silver or gold?”

After that, conversation had been easy, and he’d helped her with the rest of the display. It turned out that his father worked at the hospital just around the block, and Timothy had tired of waiting for him in the break room. (Apparently, he’d already done all the puzzles.) Shelagh had not asked about his mother, but it was clear that – for whatever reason – she was no longer there.

“Hello, Shelagh,” he said brightly now, coming straight up to the counter.  
“Hello, Timothy. How was school?”  
“Fine. We’re doing Christmas crafts, and we got to use the hot glue gun!”  
“Ooh, very exciting. Well, I’ve been getting lots of compliments on the window display – you were right about the placing of the angel.”  
The boy grinned, and turned to inspect the pile of boxes next to the counter.  
“Did anything interesting get donated today?”

They chatted about newly-donated items, and the closeness of Christmas, and Timothy eyed a row of pre-loved ornaments. He picked up a little paper maché angel.  
“How much would this one be?”  
“I’d say that, for a stellar window display assistant, it’s probably free,” Shelagh smiled.  
Timothy’s face lit up for a moment, but then his expression turned serious. “How about 20p?”  
Shelagh shook her head in fond amusement. Trust the boy to haggle the price _up_. She accepted his coin, and with great solemnity placed it in the till.  
“Thanks,” he grinned rather shyly, taking the little angel. It was the first thing he’d actually bought from the shop, Shelagh realised.  
“We always get a new decoration for the tree, ever year,” Timothy explained, smoothing his fingers over the little paper wings. “And I thought I should do it this year, so Dad doesn’t have to. It was always Mum’s thing, and, well…it’d probably make him sad. Mum died in January,” he added, quietly.

Shelagh’s heart went out to him as he toyed with the angel, not quite meeting her eyes. He obviously felt comfortable enough with her to talk about it, which she recognised as an honour. She knew all too well what it was to lose a parent at a young age.  
“That’s really thoughtful of you, Timothy. I’m sure your Dad will appreciate it.”  
He looked up again, and smiled. “Hope so. Anyway, what are _you_ doing for Christmas?”

Shelagh would be having an ‘Orphan’s Christmas’ with a handful of her midwifery student friends. Trixie and Jenny and Cynthia were younger than she was – sometimes by _more_ than a decade, it seemed – but they had all bonded over the course of their training. Jenny’s family were abroad for Christmas, as were Trixie’s, and, well, Cynthia didn’t say. It would be lovely to spend the day together – even if Shelagh might have hoped she’d be past Orphan’s Christmasses by her age.

They were discussing the awfulness of cracker jokes when Tim’s phone vibrated in his pocket.  
“Oh – Dad’s ready to get going. I s’pose I’ll see you after Christmas?”  
“I’m sure I will. Have a lovely day! Oh, and a grab a mince pie as you go – and one for your father.”

Timothy grinned as he parcelled up two mince pies in a serviette. Shelagh was glad he was there to take some – she had thought they’d be a nice treat for customers, but there were still some left.  
“Thanks Shelagh. And for the angel. Merry Christmas!”  
“Merry Christmas!”

The bell tinkled again as Timothy went out, and Shelagh smiled, watching him go. He was such a lovely kid. His father was clearly doing something right…as his mother must have done, of course.

Shelagh had been about to turn her gaze back to the counter when she blinked and looked back. Timothy hadn’t got quite beyond the field of the shop window before bumping into a tall man she could only assume to be his father. Shelagh watched them through the glass in half-lit tableau; Timothy said something and held up the mince pies, and his father laughed and ruffled his hair. There was fondness written in every line of their postures – in the way Tim’s father tilted his head towards his son. It made Shelagh glad and warm to see it.

“You really are the most sentimental fool on earth,” she chided herself, turning away to start to balance the till. Nonetheless, she smiled as she closed up shop that evening. She had always loved this time of year.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments! I'm having a lot of fun with this... Hope you like this chapter too!

By the time the new year rolled around, Shelagh was glad to get back some sense of normality. Christmas with the midwifery girls had passed in a flurry of party games and gifts, and rather too much mulled wine. She and Cynthia had slipped off to Mass on Christmas morning, returning to rouse the other two, who were lounging about eating Quality Street in their PJs. It was funny and warm and companionable, and Shelagh was glad she’d taken them up on the offer.

Still, in the first few days of the new year it felt good to get back into the shop – not least because there was a swell of donations to deal with. Well-intended Christmas gifts that hadn’t quite hit the mark would pile up in their donation bins, and even outside the shop door. It was better than things going to waste, Shelagh reasoned.

She always kept the Christmas window display up exactly until Twelfth Night; she was rather old-fashioned about that. She was eyeing it on January 3rd, envisioning what items she might use to replace it, when the shop bell tinkled and Timothy Turner came in. It was almost snowing again outside, and his cheeks were bright with cold.

“Happy New Year, Shelagh!”  
“And a Happy New Year to you! How was your Christmas?”  
“Really good, mostly. Except that Dad almost burned the turkey.”  
Shelagh stifled her laughter. The poor man.  
“Well, just as long as you didn’t go hungry. My friend Trixie almost had an incident with a flaming Christmas pudding, so your Dad’s not the only one! But I had a great Christmas, too.”

As Shelagh sorted and priced the swathe of new donations, Tim told her all about the presents he’d received. Several of the donated items were clothes, and the boy considered them, looking thoughtful.  
“If you find something nice, do _you_ ever buy the clothes?”  
“Well, if I find something _really_ nice, I always put it aside for the window, to entice people in. That dress over there on the mannequin, for example. But yes, most of my jumpers and things come from here.”

Shelagh felt suddenly conscious of the rather shabby state of what she wore. She had never felt comfortable prioritising fashion…and she’d never had the expendable income anyway. Trixie was always trying to lend her dresses, or volunteering to do her hair.

Perhaps Tim had noticed the dip in her mood, because he quickly seized upon another subject.  
“Ooh, are these old records? Vinyl’s sort of in again. But only with hipsters.”

Soon they were sitting cross-legged on the carpet, flipping through dusty piles of old LPs. Timothy would try to guess which year they were from based on the style of the cover, and he was almost always hilariously off the mark. It made Shelagh feel quite ancient.

He was almost in hysterics over the name ‘Engelbert Humperdinck’ when the shop bell tinkled, and someone else came in. Shelagh leapt to her feet, dusting off her hands on the sides of her jeans – but Timothy looked up, then relaxed again, still half-hiccupping with laughter.  
“Oh, don’t worry, that’s just my Dad.”

And yes, it was. This was the man Shelagh had seen before Christmas, standing with Timothy outside the shop window. She could see him better now. The same dark hair, the same scarf, the same tall stature – and hospital ID on a lanyard. Timothy sat up straighter and waved.

“Hi Dad! This is Shelagh.”  
The man’s eyebrows shot up.  
“ _You’re_ Shelagh?”  
“Erm, yes.”  
He seemed to recover slightly.  
“Oh, well, nice to meet you. Tim’s been talking about you for weeks.”  
“ _Dad_ …”  
Timothy’s ears had gone red. Shelagh felt herself blush too, rather gratified.

“Sorry, Tim. The mortification of having a parent.” He gave Shelagh a rueful smile, and she laughed.  
“We’ve just been sorting through some old LPs…”  
Timothy held one up. “Do you recognise this one, Dad? It’s probably from when you were a kid.”  
The cover was very clearly 1950’s – all Brylcreemed hair and ties. His father grimaced.  
“Blimey, Tim, I’m not _that_ old! My heyday was more…this stuff. But actually, Hoagy Carmichael wrote some terrific songs.”  
Shelagh smiled. “I have to agree. You should give this one a go, Timothy.”  
He looked distinctly unconvinced, and the adults laughed.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. Patrick Turner.”  
They shook hands, Shelagh hoping that hers wasn’t still grimy with dust. Timothy stood up and wandered away – apparently sensing dull grown-up talk in the offing.  
“I’ve been meaning to thank you, for looking out for Tim. He’s very welcome at the hospital…but he gets bored. I hope he hasn’t been a bother.”  
“Not at all! He helped me with the window display, actually – he probably told you. No, Tim’s very easy to have around.”  
Patrick smiled, relaxing visibly, obviously proud and relieved. “Still, I don’t imagine childcare’s part of your job description.”  
“Well, no. But to be honest, on days like this I’m glad to have the company.”  
Shelagh cringed inwardly. That made her sound desperate…

“Dad, can we get fish and chips? I’ll die if I have to eat another turkey sandwich.”  
Patrick looked at his son over his shoulder, and chuckled.  
“Alright. We can’t live on leftovers forever, I suppose. Come on then.”

“Thanks, Shelagh! See you next time!”  
She smiled at his enthusiasm. “See you, Tim.”  
Patrick lingered a moment in his son’s wake.  
“Thank you, again,” he said, so sincerely that Shelagh felt for a moment like the only person in the world. Which was ridiculous. “Nice to have met you.”  
And then he was gone, following his son.

\--

Patrick hardly heard what his son was saying as he drove them towards their favourite chippy. He wondered vaguely if he mightn’t be in shock.

Timothy had been nattering on about ‘Shelagh from the charity shop’ for weeks on end, and Patrick had just _assumed_ that the woman in question was a rather sweet old lady. The name was an old-fashioned one, after all. Tim had failed to mention that she was young, and…well…lovely. In a way that second-hand jumpers utterly failed to hide.

Patrick felt an immediate twinge of guilt. What was he doing, ogling some poor girl so many years his junior? And only just a year after his wife’s death.

“…Dad? Did you hear me?”  
“What? Sorry, Tim. Mind was wandering.”  
“I _said_ , it’s good that you’ve met Shelagh. Even if you were a little weird.”  
Patrick huffed. “I wasn’t weird. You’re just suffering from nearly-a-teenager-itis.”  
“I’m eleven.”  
“Exactly.”

Timothy folded his arms moodily over his seatbelt, and Patrick continued.  
“You’re lucky she’s so generous with her time. She must have plenty of other commitments.”  
“She doesn’t have a boyfriend. I asked.”  
Patrick went cold with sudden, second-hand embarrassment.  
“God, Tim, you didn’t ask her out?”  
The boy’s expression was scathing.  
“Of _course_ not, she’s way too old! We were just talking about life stuff, and what we were doing for Christmas. She spent it with her friends from midwifery.”  
Patrick blinked, lost in the onslaught of information. “She’s a midwife?”  
Surely he would’ve remembered seeing her around the hospital…  
“She’s _studying_ to be one. I’m sure I told you.”  
“Oh. Well, good for her.”

To Patrick’s immense relief, they had just arrived outside the fish and chip shop.  
“Why don’t you go in and get them? And get yourself a doughnut, too.”  
Tim looked somewhat mollified at that, and accepted the money graciously.  
“Okay, thanks. I’ll be back in a bit. Love you, Dad.” He added, under his breath, “Weirdo.”

Patrick watched his son disappear into the chip shop, and sighed. He’d never really got the hang of the beginning of a new year. Maybe this – whatever it was – was just the usual disorienting effect of January? He only hoped it wouldn’t make him look a fool.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the lovely feedback! This is pure self-indulgence for me, so it's nice to know that others are enjoying it!
> 
> The story's now moving away from Christmas, and into the warmer seasons - but it'll circle back to winter by the end. Hope you enjoy it!

Before Shelagh knew where the days were going, it was early Spring. The new window display hinted at the coming of warmer months – she’d designed it with lighter cardigans, skirts, and a few plastic flowers. Timothy _said_ he approved, though she doubted he had any serious views on Spring fashions.

He was still a regular visitor, however. He came in one afternoon straight after school, brandishing a notebook with purpose.  
“At school we’re doing projects on things we can do to help the environment. I thought I’d do mine on this place! You know, on sustainable shopping, and upcycling and all that.”  
Shelagh blinked, impressed.  
“That’s an excellent idea, Tim. If I can help in any way, do let me know.”  
“Well, can you show me some of the stuff you do to repair things, and make them sellable?”

Shelagh looked around for something to serve as an example, and her eyes caught on a pile of mending. She picked up an old brown cardigan and examined it.  
“Well, see, this still has plenty of good wear left. It just needs a few small touches. Do you know how to sew a button?”  
Timothy looked sheepish. “Um, no. My Dad and I aren’t super domestic.”  
She gave him an understanding smile, before carrying on briskly.  
“Well, it’s a good skill for anyone to have – and really quite simple. Fetch me that tin of spare buttons, and let’s have a go.”

\--

Patrick had been glad of the hospital’s chaos in the early weeks of the new year. It had got him through the strange bittersweetness of Christmas with Tim – and also provided a welcome distraction from thoughts of the young woman his son had befriended.

He had only met her once, and then thrown himself back into his busy schedule. But the more Patrick thought about that first meeting, the more certain he felt that his reaction to her must have been an anomaly. He’d been stirred up by the heightened emotions of the Christmas season – that was it. And she was very pretty, and he was only human. But there was no need to actively avoid her. It wasn’t as though he was still a nervous schoolboy – far from it!

(When he was fourteen, he had vowed never again to enter a particular sweetshop, after his voice cracked talking to the pretty salesgirl.)

One afternoon he finished early, and walked the few blocks from the hospital to pick up Tim in person. St. Raymond Nonnatus… He smiled to see the familiar sign outside the charity shop, the twin of its hospital namesake. It was strange he’d never had reason to visit the shop earlier, having worked at the hospital so many years.

He pushed the door open with a tinkle of the bell, and saw Timothy look up from where he was seated. Shelagh, however, was engaged in conversation with a customer – and it took Patrick no more than a second to read their body language. The older lady was clearly insistent about something.

“It was three weeks ago that I dropped it off – I noted it in my diary.”  
Shelagh’s face was perfectly impassive.  
“Yes, well, at this time of year we do get a high volume of donations. I’ll certainly look through our paperwork for you, and through the storeroom – but if you can’t see it here, I’m afraid it’s possible that in those three weeks it may have sold.”  
“Well, that’s just _brilliant_!”

The woman’s tone was snappish and offensive, and Timothy opened his mouth to retort – but Patrick shot him a glance across the room. _Shelagh’s got this under control, Tim,_ the look said.

And she did. She wasn’t simply kind and generous – she was a cool, calm, polite force to be reckoned with. Patrick _tried_ not to notice how very attractive that made her.

The woman left, grumbling, several minutes later. Patrick ambled up to the counter, and offered Shelagh a sympathetic smile.

“Hello, Doctor. Sorry about that…”  
“I didn’t get the impression it was _your_ fault.”  
Shelagh smiled, and rolled her eyes.  
“Would you believe it’s not the first time that’s happened? _Twice_ I’ve had people try to un-donate things they’ve realised might have had some value. Antiques Roadshow has a lot to answer for.”  
Patrick laughed, slightly louder than he’d meant to – and her cross expression melted into a self-deprecating smile.

Timothy came hurrying over, obviously glad the unpleasant woman had left.  
“Well done,” he said, very seriously, and Shelagh’s eyes sparkled amusement.  
“Thank you, Tim. I’ve actually dealt with worse.”  
“Midwifery will be a walk in the park,” joked Patrick – and then wanted to swallow his words when she looked at him in surprise.  
“Tim told me you were studying midwifery…” he explained, awkwardly.  
“Oh, yes, I am. I should graduate this year, all going to plan.”  
She smiled again, and to his relief it seemed she wasn’t offput to realise she’d been a topic of conversation.  
“I’m sure you’ll be brilliant,” Tim said, confidently. Patrick silently agreed.

As he and Timothy left the shop a few minutes later, Patrick hardly knew what he felt. Surely he _shouldn’t_ be letting himself dwell on thoughts of this younger woman… But he couldn’t regret seeing her, either. She was undoubtedly a force for good in Timothy’s life, and that, he decided, had to be what mattered. As for his own, selfish feelings, they would dull with time.

Probably.

\--

“You’re awfully chipper this morning,” Trixie observed, as the four of them stood in line for coffee.  
“Oh, well…” Shelagh shrugged, “it’s Spring!”  
“It’s also seven o’clock in the morning,” said Jenny, miserably.

Shelagh had always felt her spirits lift with Spring’s arrival – it seemed to happen every year, like clockwork. And this year, she was on the cusp of a new career, and she had good friends, and her work at the shop gave her a sense of community. Of _course_ she was smiling more than usual.

She and Timothy were sitting behind the counter playing Snap one late afternoon, when the shop bell tinkled and Shelagh looked up. It was Doctor Turner, looking especially smart in a check shirt. Perhaps he’d had an important meeting…

“Snap!”  
Timothy had taken advantage of her momentary distraction, snapping the matching cards and seizing the pile. Shelagh laughed, feigning outrage.  
“Tim,” said his father disapprovingly, “that was very ungentlemanly of you.”  
“It’s my own fault if I was distracted,” Shelagh insisted, smiling at the man as he approached. He smiled, too.

“How was your day, Dad?” Timothy asked, clearly angling to get back into his good books.  
“You know, I’ve had worse.”  
“Well that’s good. Oh, hang on – I’ve just seen Jack Smith out the window – back in a minute!”  
And with that, the boy was racing out of the shop. The adults smiled at each other in amusement.

“And what about _your_ day?” Patrick asked. “No particularly unpleasant customers?”  
“Only pleasant ones, today,” Shelagh answered, and he smiled again.

“Oh, by the way, I’ve been meaning to thank you, for helping Tim with his project. It must have been you who taught him how to sew a button?”  
“Yes, that was me. Has he been practising?”  
“Has he ever! For a while there, we were in danger of a pearly kings situation.”  
Shelagh started laughing in apologetic embarrassment, as the doctor smiled ruefully. She wondered how many buttons Timothy had sewn onto a single garment.  
“Well, I suppose you can’t fault for him for enthusiasm.”  
“I suppose not.”  
Patrick grinned down at her, and Shelagh found that, suddenly, she couldn’t think of anything to say.

Thankfully, at that moment Timothy and Jack came hurrying in, to ask whether Jack could join them for dinner.

It took several more meetings like this before Shelagh could admit to herself that maybe she had…a bit of a crush…on Doctor Turner. Patrick. But obviously just ‘a bit of a crush’. She clung to that innocuous-sounding phrase. After all, he _was_ handsome, in a Cary Grant sort of way. And even better, he was completely unattainable, so there was no chance of her making a fool of herself.

Probably.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, and a bit of a tease for what's coming next... Also, I've added another chapter to the outline, so there's still a little way to go! Hope you like it!

The window display at the charity shop had changed again, several times, and now it was all decked out for summer. Sundresses, shorts and T-shirts were modelled on the mannequins, with a range of sandals displayed at their feet. Even the weather was playing its part – temperatures had risen steadily.

Patrick was sweating slightly under his shirt. On days like these he cursed professional dress codes. He looked down at the cardboard box in his arms, and sighed.

_This is transparent, Turner. Senior doctors don’t get sent on errands._

But he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d been on his way out for lunch when he’d spotted the Lost Property Box – and before he knew it, he was offering to deliver the longest-abandoned items to the charity shop for donation. It _was_ hospital policy, he thought to himself, in a weak attempt to justify his actions. But there was no denying the real reason he’d volunteered.

He _could not_ stop thinking about Shelagh Mannion. (He’d weaselled her full name out of Tim, possibly less casually than he’d hoped to.) Seeing her every other day, he didn’t know how he was _supposed_ to stop thinking about her. And if he was honest, he didn’t want to.

Arriving at the charity shop, Patrick was disappointed to see a sign taped to the door, reading ‘Back in 5 minutes’. It was handwritten, in an elegant cursive that he would have bet anything was Shelagh’s. Damn it all. He could wait… No, that would look stupid, and obvious. He couldn’t very well leave the box on the doorstep. Something made him reach out and try the doorknob, and to his surprise, it turned in his hand. Maybe Shelagh was back, and just hadn’t removed the sign yet?

The shop bell tinkled as he cautiously stepped inside, looking around for somewhere to set the box down. He had just put it down on the counter when someone spoke.

“Hello?”  
The familiar Scottish lilt to the voice set his heart jumping. _She must be out the back somewhere…_

“It’s just me.” There was a pause. “Patrick,” he added, stupidly, and grimaced at himself.  
“ _Patrick_?” The voice sounded a little breathless. “Err, I’ll just be a moment…”

With a shock, he realised that Shelagh’s voice was coming from the curtained-off cubicle that functioned as the shop’s changing room. _Oh, God_. Patrick felt his face heat up. He distinctly heard the slide of a zip and the soft sounds of fabric, and desperately began to recite the Hippocratic Oath in his head. He could _not_ let himself think about anything beyond that curtain.

When the curtain slid back a few seconds later, it was clear that Shelagh had hurried. Her cheeks were prettily flushed, and her hair slightly mussed, as though from pulling her blouse over her head. She looked slightly embarrassed…and completely beguiling.

Patrick felt suddenly weak.

_I am absolutely done for._

“Sorry,” she began, “I was just…”  
“ _I’m_ sorry,” Patrick insisted. “It’s just that the door was unlocked, and I had… Oh, it’s over here.”  
He picked up the cardboard box from the counter.  
“I thought I’d drop off some things from our Lost Property Box at the hospital. Once anything’s been in there for over a year, it’s fair game to donate, so I thought I’d just, you know…bring these over.”  
He was rambling, he knew. He couldn’t help it.

“Oh, that’s very good of you. Thank you!”  
“I don’t know if there’s anything actually useful in there…” he shrugged, wondering why he felt the need to downplay the gesture. (Probably because it had been far from selfless.)  
“Well, I can see a hoodie, and those are always welcome. Do you need the box back?”  
“Oh, no, we have others.”

Patrick cast about for something, anything to say, and his eye caught on a flyer by the till.  
“Oh – you’re advertising the Summer Fete?”  
Shelagh nodded, smiling at the bright design.  
“We always have a stall there. Proceeds to the usual charities, and it’s nice to get involved with the wider community. I’m sure the hospital will have a presence?”  
“Yes. Not sure what we’re doing this year. It’s usually something that wounds the pride…”  
Shelagh chuckled. “Well, all for a good cause. I suppose I’ll see you there, then? If not beforehand.”  
“Yes.” Patrick checked his watch. “I’d better get back, my lunchbreak’s over in…ten minutes.”  
“Well, please thank the hospital for these donations. I mean, thank someone.”  
He grinned. “I will. Nice to see you. Bye!”

A few seconds later, he was striding down the street.

_‘Nice to see you’? Pathetic, Turner._

But as he went back to work, Patrick was smiling.

_\--_

Alone in the shop, Shelagh leant against the counter. That had been…unexpected. And lovely. But thank goodness he hadn’t arrived even one minute earlier.

She glanced guiltily over at the changing room, and hurried to retrieve the item she’d abandoned. It was slightly crumpled now, from a few minutes on the floor, but it was still the prettiest thing she’d worn in years.

The white-and-yellow sundress had leapt out at her from a pile of new donations, and when she’d seen it was her size she’d hadn’t _quite_ been able to resist trying it on. It _was_ flattering. It was also just the kind of thing she’d normally set aside for display in the window…but, well, perhaps the window didn’t need _this_ one.

Shelagh pulled a note from her pocket – probably more than the dress was really worth – and placed it resolutely in the till.

She wasn’t going to overthink her reasons. She _was_ going to think about prepping the shop’s stall for the Summer Fete. After all, it was only a week away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have all been the loveliest, and I really hope this chapter is one you enjoy! It's twice the length of the previous chapters, so...just consider this a Christmas Special? One more to go after this. xx

The days seemed to pass in a blur, and in the few moments Shelagh paused for breath she was surprised to notice just how _happy_ she was. She and Jenny and Trixie and Cynthia had all passed their final assessments, and after graduating they would be fully-qualified midwives. (Shelagh had got them through the exam stress in her accepted role as ‘the Mum friend’ – which Cynthia kindly assured her had nothing to do with her age, but rather her warm and nurturing nature.) 

And in the meantime, she had the Summer Fete to keep her occupied. Shelagh always ran the charity shop’s stall, with assistance from the Sisters of St. Raymond Nonnatus, who made the trip from the Mother House each year to take part. She was terribly fond of all of them – particularly Sister Julienne. Shelagh realised she hadn’t seen the Sisters since the Fete the year before. Would she look different to them, she wondered? She certainly _felt_ different. More confident, more…fully alive, somehow?

The day of the Summer Fete dawned bright and warm – better weather than anyone could’ve hoped. Given the heat, and the occasion, Shelagh felt perfectly justified in wearing her recently-purchased sundress. She’d washed and ironed it, and for a second-hand item it turned out very well. She felt a nervous leap of excitement standing in front of the mirror.

Her hopeless crush on Doctor Turner had in no way lessened. At this point, she’d more or less just decided to enjoy it. Just because nothing would come of it didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the giddy feeling his smiles gave her. And she would see him again this afternoon…

By midday, the stalls were all set up on the cordoned-off street, and the crowds were starting to arrive. Shelagh was watching over the St. Raymond Nonnatus stall, alongside Sister Monica Joan – who had insisted they both ‘hydrate in this heat’ with ice lollies. Sister Julienne joined them some minutes later, giving the frozen treats an amused glance.

“Hello, Shelagh! It’s good to see you. And aren’t you looking lovely?”  
“I was just telling her,” said Sister Monica Joan, “that I had a dress much like this when I was young.”  
Shelagh blushed slightly under all the attention, but enjoyed the implicit approval all the same. One of the things she’d always admired about Sister Julienne was the woman’s ability to respect other ways of living than her own.

Jenny and Cynthia and Trixie had said they would come, and the nuns insisted that Shelagh leave the stall to spend time with her friends. She met up with the girls in front of the main stage – and as they approached her, Trixie’s face lit up in delight.

“Shelagh, what is _this_?” She fussed at the skirt. “I almost didn’t recognise you.”  
“Well, thank you Trixie, that’s very flattering.”  
She would normally have let a comment like that pass. Perhaps she was more nervous about seeing Patrick than she’d thought…  
“I didn’t mean it like _that_. I just didn’t realise you had shoulders. Or _legs_.”  
“Oh, stop embarrassing her,” Jenny laughed.  
“You look lovely, Shelagh,” said Cynthia, kindly.  
“Thank you…”

Trixie turned to look at the stage as a local calypso band started playing.  
“Ooh, perfect! Have I told you about the dance classes I’ve been taking? They’re an excellent way to meet men.”  
She said that with a very pointed look at Shelagh, who simply rolled her eyes in amusement, and allowed Trixie to take both her hands.  
“Come on, let me teach you girls a few steps…”

\--

The Turners had hardly arrived before Timothy ran off, eager to find his friends. Patrick wandered the Fete more aimlessly. He realised after a moment that he was scanning the crowd in search of Shelagh, and shook his head at his own folly.

A moment later, he stopped breathing entirely.

There she was, in front of the band, dancing with her friends. Laughing self-consciously, and looking…just… _impossibly_ lovely. Her honey-coloured hair was loose and bouncing over her shoulders, and the _dress_ … He’d never seen her in a dress, he realised.

Patrick willed himself not to stare, and failed spectacularly. The day suddenly felt about ten degrees hotter.

“Dad! There you are! What are you doing?”  
Patrick jumped as his son appeared beside him.  
“I’m just…listening to the band.”  
Tim nodded casually, then perked up a bit. “Oh, there’s Shelagh! And that must be Trixie.”  
“Hmm? Oh, yes, I suppose so.”  
The boy gave his father a look.

“I still don’t know why you’re wearing a proper shirt, Dad.”  
“I thought that was part of the fun? ‘Dunk the Doctor’ in his professional attire?”  
Timothy shrugged. “I suppose. Come on then! Nurse Crane’s setting it all up!”

\--

Shelagh was breathless with laughter by the time they left the dance floor and went to meander round the stalls. They had just rounded a corner when Timothy Turner came bounding up to them.

“Hi Shelagh!”  
“Hello! This is Timothy, everyone. And these are my friends from midwifery.”  
“I thought so,” the boy grinned. He looked over his shoulder impatiently, and with a nervous swoop in her stomach Shelagh realised that Patrick was following a few steps behind. He smiled awkwardly as he came closer, as though he felt he might be intruding.

“Guess what the hospital’s doing for charity this year?” asked Tim gleefully.  
“ _What_?” said Trixie, warming to the boy at once.  
“Dunk the Doctor! You know, a dunking booth where you throw balls and hit the target and-”  
“ _Yes_ , Tim, I think they get the picture,” said Patrick, joining the group.  
“ _You’re_ doing it?”

Shelagh’s voice had come out embarrassingly breathless, and she could feel Trixie’s eyes on the back of her head. Patrick gave her a sheepish look.  
“Doctor Raines – _Clifford_ – goaded me into it. He kept calling me ‘Patrick, old man’, and I felt I had a point to prove. Anyway, it’s for charity.”  
Shelagh gave him a weak smile. “At least it’s a warm day,” she managed, lamely – wondering how on _earth_ she was supposed to hide her feelings when faced with a soaking wet Patrick Turner. Just the idea was in danger of making her blush.

“Well, come on Tim – we’d better go and report to Nurse Crane. Wish me luck,” Patrick grinned wryly over his shoulder, and Shelagh felt her stomach flutter again.

Trixie rounded on Shelagh immediately.  
“Who’s _he_?”  
“Doctor Turner.”  
“ _And_ …?”  
“And I think I’d like an ice cream,” cut in Cynthia, taking pity on her friend.

Shelagh hardly heard the girls chatter as they waited by the ice cream van. They hadn’t got to the window yet when Timothy came racing up again, out of breath.

“It’s Dad’s turn in a few minutes! Come and see!”  
Shelagh hesitated, though she knew she couldn’t deny that eager face anything. The girls all beamed in encouragement.  
“Go on! And tell us _all about_ it later…”  
Trixie didn’t wink, but she might as well have done.

Timothy prattled on cheerfully as he hurried Shelagh down the street.  
“Do you have coins on you? If you don’t, I’ll pay for your turn.”  
“My turn? Tim, I couldn’t! Your father would never speak to me again.”  
Timothy rolled his eyes. “He _would_. Come on Shelagh, it’s for _charity_ …”

They arrived at the ‘Dunk the Doctor’ booth to find a small crowd gathered. It was mostly children, though several hospital staff were loitering too, clearly keen to see their colleagues embarrassed. Patrick was already seated above the tank of water.

“Two, please,” said Timothy cheerfully, and was handed two balls to throw at the target. Patrick looked up at the sound of his son’s voice, and when he saw Shelagh _and_ Tim in the crowd he feigned a look of shock and wounded betrayal. Shelagh gave an apologetic little wave.

“Alright, everyone!” Nurse Crane raised her voice above the hubbub. “You are to start throwing your balls when, and _only when_ , I say so. And obviously, all balls are to be thrown _at the target_ – not at Doctor Turner, who has generously volunteered to take part. Understood?”  
There was a general murmur of agreement.  
“Alright. ‘Dunk the Doctor’ begins in three…two…one!”

At once there was whooping and laughter and the thunderous sound of balls hitting the booth. Some hit the target, but not hard enough – Patrick was still in place, watching his attackers with good-natured laughter. Shelagh and Timothy found themselves at the front of the queue, and Tim brandished his ball with glee.  
“Come on, Shelagh!”  
Shelagh screwed her eyes shut, and threw the ball wildly. It missed – but a second later, Jack Smith hit the target fair and square.

Instantly the plank gave way, and Patrick fell with a splash into the water. The crowd laughed and cheered uproariously, and Jack and Timothy high-fived. Shelagh bit her lip as the doctor emerged, clambering out of the tank with a hand from a colleague.

“We’ll need a moment to reset the booth, but up next – dunk Doctor Raines!”

Shelagh peeled away from the crowd, loitering nervously near where Patrick stood. He looked up from his sopping clothes, and with an accusing sort of grin that made Shelagh’s knees feel weak, he began to stride towards her.

He was soaked to the skin, shirt sticking to his body, and water still puddling at his feet. There was absolutely nowhere safe for Shelagh to put her eyes. She was quite certain she was blushing.

“It wasn’t me,” she said preemptively, as he halted before her. “I’m a terrible shot.”  
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “You _would_ say that.”  
“No, honestly – it’s that Jack Smith with the strong right arm you’re after.”

They were grinning at each other, barely holding in their laughter – and they might have kept on doing so if Shelagh hadn’t let her eyes stray to his hairline.

“Oh, you’ve hurt yourself!”  
Patrick frowned.  
“What? I’m sure I would’ve noticed – ah!”  
He hissed as his fingers brushed the graze at his hairline. Then he shrugged.  
“Oh. Well, it’s probably nothing-”

Shelagh had no idea where she got the courage. If she’d thought about it for any longer than a second, she would probably never have been so brave.

“Come with me,” she said, firmly, taking Patrick’s hand and dragging him towards the First Aid tent.

\--

Patrick knew he was fine, really. He must’ve just clipped something slightly as he fell, but it hadn’t really hurt him. If he was acting concussed, it probably had a lot more to do with that dress – and the way she’d just taken his hand.

Still, he allowed himself to be pulled towards the First Aid tent. Frankly, he’d follow Shelagh Mannion anywhere. He noticed dimly that the rest of the crowd was moving in the opposite direction.  
_Oh, to see Doctor Raines get a dunking…_

Even the medics seemed to have abandoned their post, leaving the tent empty. Patrick smirked as he realised they’d probably wanted to see the young doctor get taken down a peg.

“Sit down there, and let’s see what we can do…”  
Patrick sat obediently, and watched as she rifled through a first aid kit. He rather liked this authoritative Shelagh…and her accent had always been so attractive. Perhaps he _was_ feeling a little woozy…

“Now, I’ll need to disinfect…” She stopped, laughing shyly. “I’m sorry, you know all this. I don’t know why I’m prattling on…”  
Patrick shook his head, then regretted it slightly as the cut stung.  
“No, prattle away. It’s good medical practice. Anyway, it’s novel for me to be on the other side of things.”

As she came closer, _much_ closer, Patrick wondered what to do with his eyes. He couldn’t look straight ahead – his eyes were level with her dress’s neckline. Looking up at her face felt only marginally safer.

Shelagh dabbed at his wound with disinfectant, and he tried not to wince. Or to notice how good her hands felt in his hair.  
“It looks as though everyone’s gone to watch Doctor Raines get dunked.”  
Patrick rolled his eyes. “They probably just want to see him in a wet T-shirt.”  
“Well, everybody has _one_ redeeming feature…”

Surprised by that sly comment, Patrick felt laughter bubble up in his chest. Shelagh was coyly avoiding his eyes, colour high in her cheeks. He could tell she was trying not laugh. 

Oh, she was funny, and sexy, and tantalisingly close. And her hands were still in his hair, as she carefully applied a bandage at his temple.

“That’s...a very nice dress,” said Patrick, before he could stop himself.  
Her eyes darted to his, and away again.  
“Thank you…”

Possibly it was the way her blush deepened. Or maybe it was just that she was so close. Patrick turned his head ever so slightly, and pressed his lips to the tender skin of her wrist.

\--

Shelagh was frozen to the spot. It was all she could do to slowly draw her hand away. They stared at each other for one long moment, and Patrick obviously read her stunned expression as discomfort.

“I’m sorry…”  
His voice was achingly sincere.  
“Are you?”  
She realised dimly that she sounded afraid of the answer. Patrick blinked, trying to comprehend.  
“Well,” he stammered, “it sort of depends…on whether you’re horrified…or…”

Shelagh couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. That Patrick Turner had tenderly kissed her wrist, and was now politely enquiring whether that repulsed her. Her mouth twitched into a tremulous smile.  
“Horrified is _not_ the word I’d use…”

It came out so breathless-sounding that there really wasn’t room left for confusion. Patrick stared at her, and then suddenly got to his feet. This instantly reversed the height-difference between them, and Shelagh drew a shaky breath.

“Shelagh…what are you doing next Saturday?”  
“Graduating,” she said, like an idiot.  
His face fell. “But I’m free on Sunday,” she added, desperately.  
“Can I take you to dinner? Or brunch, or…anything?”  
The corners of Shelagh’s mouth ached from smiling.  
“I’d like that. Very much.”

Patrick breathed a disbelieving laugh, and Shelagh did too, at a loss for anything to say. Then his eyes fell quite obviously to her lips, and the idea of saying anything at all dropped off Shelagh’s list of priorities.

They were only inches apart when a familiar voice made them jump.

“Dad? Are you in here?”

By the time Tim entered they were a respectable distance apart – though Shelagh’s heart was still going a mile a minute. Timothy insisted that his father face off against him at the coconut shy – apparently they had a long-running competition.  
“I think I’d better get back to the stall,” Shelagh smiled reluctantly. “But I’ll see you soon?”  
“Of _course_ we’ll see you,” said Timothy, looking bewildered. “We’re in the shop every other day!”

Shelagh bumped into the girls on her way back to the stall.  
“Trixie,” she said boldly, meeting the curious gazes head-on, “I’m going to need to borrow a dress.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the end! A huge, warm thank you to everyone who's followed this fic, and given me such wonderful encouragement. 
> 
> Warning: Severely mushy stuff ahead...

The girls were more than willing to help Shelagh get ready for her date – in fact, they practically insisted. Trixie brought round a selection of dresses, and it soon became clear that what on Trixie was sinfully tight was merely fitted and flattering on Shelagh.

“Gosh – on you, that looks almost demure!” She looked Shelagh up and down again, and then winked. “ _Almost_.”

They paired the dress with heels and a bold lipstick that Trixie assured her wasn’t too much. (When Cynthia agreed, Shelagh went with it.)

It was very sweet of them, and Shelagh hoped they all knew how much she appreciated it. They waved her off with a few salacious jokes, and feigned sighs about their own ‘perpetual singledom’.

Patrick had said he’d meet her at the restaurant, and when she arrived he was there – looking gorgeous in the same shirt that had secretly been her favourite for months. He actually stood up when she reached the table, and it was such a sweetly old-fashioned gesture that if she hadn’t already been so far gone, she might’ve fallen for him again in that moment.

“Hello,” she smiled, shyly.  
“Hi…” Patrick sat again as she did. “You look amazing.”  
Shelagh glowed. “Thank you. Where’s Timothy this evening?”  
“He’s being babysat by a colleague of mine, Barbara – Nurse Gilbert. He probably would’ve preferred you…but, well, I got in first.” Then he frowned apologetically. “Sorry, I’m _quite_ nervous.”  
Shelagh laughed, relieved. “So am I!”  
“Well then. Wine?”

Shelagh stuck to her usual limit of two glasses, but even so felt her cheeks flush under Patrick’s admiring gaze. They talked about her recent graduation, and her hopes for her new career, and in turn he regaled her with stories from his days at medical school. It was wonderfully easy to be in his company, now that she wasn’t trying to hide what she felt.

After dinner they took an aimless walk in the late evening sunlight – and although they both walked deliberately slow, it still eventually came to an end on Shelagh’s doorstep.

“Well…” said Patrick, “thank you for a wonderful evening.”  
He was slightly loosened by the effects of alcohol and laughter, and really _very_ attractive. Shelagh thought of the jokes Jenny and Trixie had made earlier in the evening, and tried her best not to blush.   
“Oh, I had a lovely time.”  
Patrick’s smile suddenly took on a nervous, questioning quality.  
“Do you think there’s a chance we could do this again?”  
Shelagh beamed. “Definitely.”

He let out a barely-audible sigh of relief, and came maybe half a step closer.  
“Well, um…goodnight.”  
“Goodnight…”

There was one deliciously awkward moment…and then they both laughed breathlessly. It was about time, after all.

The kiss was impetuous, quick and soft and fervent – and over sooner than Shelagh might’ve liked. But, of course, Patrick was being a gentleman. And even a brief kiss was apparently enough to turn Shelagh into some kind of schoolgirl, able only to stammer “Goodnight” again and hurry away before she did something foolish.

\--

Timothy handled this new development very well. He didn’t seem very surprised, when Patrick told him.  
“That’s cool. Just as long as you remember that she was my friend first.”

Shelagh’s new place their lives was marked by her joining their annual movie night – rewatching a favourite Wallace & Gromit movie. She and Patrick sat side-by-side on the old golden sofa, while Tim sat in front of them on a beanbag.

“Just so you know,” said the boy, without turning his head, “I _can_ see you in the reflection on the telly.”  
“Thanks for that, Tim,” Patrick smirked, and immediately leaned in as though to kiss her. Shelagh laughed as Timothy groaned, and was only _slightly_ disappointed when Patrick pulled away at the last second.

(He made up for it later, in the kitchen.)

\--

They had been on several more dates, and after a very enjoyable evening were kissing goodnight on Shelagh’s doorstep. This kiss was decidedly _not_ a brief one, and though they were technically in public Shelagh really couldn’t bring herself to care. One of Patrick’s hands had found its way inside her coat, and was sliding up her waist in a way that made it very difficult to think.

“Patrick,” she breathed against his lips, “would you…like to come in?”

It was a question with a one-word answer.

\--

In early autumn, Shelagh resigned from the St. Raymond Nonnatus Charity Shop – because she now had a job at St. Raymond Nonnatus the hospital. The nuns all sent her cards from the Mother House. She suspected word might have got back to them about Patrick, based on the phrasing of their blessings for ‘this new stage in your life’.

She felt a bit better about leaving the shop when she met the girl who would replace her. The new girl was a student called Winifred, who had an incredibly positive attitude and a mane of wild red hair. And she was very good at window displays – though Tim loyally professed that Shelagh’s had been better.

\--

Before any of them knew where the days had gone, it was December. They left the house together on a clear, crisp, beautiful Christmas Eve, and it wasn’t actually snowing, but the air was promisingly cold.

It was time to buy a new decoration for the tree, as Timothy’s mother had always done. Patrick had told him that price was no object, but the boy still headed straight for the charity shop. Shelagh and Patrick waited outside, lit by the glow of the window display and huddling together in the cold.

“You know I’m more than happy to wait, if you want to go in and choose it with him,” Shelagh offered, shivering slightly.  
Patrick shook his head. “I think this is something it's important for Tim to do by himself. We’ll do something together on Marianne’s birthday.”  
She smiled understandingly, and squeezed his hand.

“Oh, I just remembered,” said Patrick, fumbling with gloved fingers in his coat pocket, “Tim brought this home for you, from school.”  
He handed Shelagh a homemade card.  
“They were doing Christmas crafts, and got to take a card home for someone. Tim told me he’s nearly too old to do ‘soppy things like that’ for very much longer, so he thought he’d give you this card, since I’ve had plenty.”  
Shelagh laughed, shaking her head in amusement. Timothy _was_ growing up alarmingly quickly.

She couldn’t help grinning as she opened the card, fighting down warm fuzzies in her chest. When Patrick nodded encouragingly, she began to read the message aloud.

“Dear Shelagh, Season’s greetings! I’m really looking forward to having you with us for Christmas. Thank you for trying to teach Dad how to cook. You are a very brave woman.”  
She had to pause then, unable to keep from laughing, and Patrick rolled his eyes. Once she’d regained control of her voice, Shelagh continued.  
“I hope you like what we got you for Christmas. If you don’t, we’ll probably get it right next year. Love, Tim. P.S. Please will you marry my…Dad…?”

The sentence had been halfway out of her mouth before Shelagh realised what she was saying.

Her head snapped around and she saw that, far from looking surprised, Patrick was watching her face intently. In one gloved hand, he held an open velvet box.  
“Will you?” he asked, hardly breathing.

Shelagh’s face broke into something that was half tears, half complete, unbridled happiness. She fumbled trying to remove her left glove, and, laughing in relief, Patrick helped her. The ring was simple and beautiful, and perfect.

It probably _wasn’t_ a coincidence that they’d just stopped kissing when the shop door opened, and Timothy came out. He was grinning, and holding a little paper bag.

“I got a glittery pinecone for the tree, and a free mince pie from Winifred!”  
“I got a fiancée,” replied Patrick, raising their joined hands to show Shelagh’s ring glittering in the night.  
“Nice one, Dad.”

It was about two seconds before Tim’s expression of ‘casual approval’ cracked. Suddenly looking absolutely delighted, he barrelled into Shelagh, throwing his arms around her waist.

“Oh, you two…”  
Shelagh tilted her face heavenwards in an effort to keep the tears from falling. Patrick watched them, grinning, his face alight.

“Alright,” said Timothy, pulling away, “that’s enough of that. Carolling round the wards starts at six. And you can show off your ring!” He grinned again. “Trixie is going to _flip_.”

Shelagh and Patrick laughed, knowing he was right. And though they were supposed to be on their way, Patrick lingered a moment longer, to press one last smiling kiss against her glove.

“Come _on_!”

High above them, snow began to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you think of this Christmassy self-indulgence! Do leave a comment, if you have time.
> 
> Also, feel free to say hi on tumblr: @wednesdaygilfillian


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